Love at First Wound
by Forgotten Coffee
Summary: Dorian x Sorscha. Even when a certain white-haired witchling comes into his life, Dorian will always love Sorscha. When, 10 years into his reign, an old woman from Fenharrow comes asking after her daughter, who had supposedly worked in the palace as a healer, Dorian does not know what to think. Sorscha's mother had been burned for being a healer during his father's rule... right?
1. Chapter 1

**Hello friends! This is my second attempt at posting this; if you have tried before to read this then hopefully it works for you this time. Sorry about how short this is; I might add more, but writers block has been ruthlessly attacking me lately...**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Throne of Glass or the ****characters**** mentioned. I am not (Queen) Sarah J Maas**

**Without further ado...**

SORSCHA

The young man stared at her with unblinking eyes as she gently examined his shirt-less chest for 'pulls in the muscles'. She was... well, he didn't really know. She wasn't beautiful in the way of the courtesans constantly dancing around him, nor was she ugly, like the street urchins running wild in the streets. She was just... her.

And he, Dorian Havillard, Crown Prince of Adarlan, loved her.

DORIAN

The healer's hands flitted across the man's bare chest, under the pretence of examining his chest for pulls in the muscles. Key word, muscles. Despite the fact that she did her best to keep her eyes averted, the man smirked t her with a knowing expression. Finally giving up, Sorscha looked into those eyes... those _eyes_... and the Prince stared right back. No. He was the Prince.

No.

He was out of bounds.

No.

He had a notorious history when to women.

No.

He was the Prince, for the Wyrd's sake.

_The Prince._

_No. _

_ Yes._

_... and so two bedchambers became one._

*LATER* - - DORIAN

In his head, he screamed. Again, and again, and again. IN his head, she fell, again, and again, and again. In his head he saw her body fall, and felt only an agony that was not his, not truly.

In a small, true part of his mind, perhaps the only part that was entirely his, he know that she was gone. Sorscha was gone.

Sorscha was dead.

So why did he still love her?


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello, friends! So, I had originally thought this would be a quick one-shot, after much prompting and mild procrastination, here it is. Chapter 2. There will (hopefully) be many more chapters to come. This is the scene of Sorscha's death.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or the story. Sarah J Maas is the author of Throne of Glass.**

**Without further ado...**

SORSCHA

"No."

The kings gaze levelled on her, cruel and unyielding. Sorscha registered the word slowly, working through the meaning as if she were drugged. There was a flash of movement above her head. She looked up, and the sword came crashing down to seal her fate.

It was over.

—

It was dark, it was so, so dark. And why was everything blurring, why could she only hear Dorian's anguished scream as if from underwater?

His scream.

It was a primal thing, a roar and a plea, a beg to whatever forces there were to please, please don't let her die. It pierced the walls of the chamber.

It pierced her soul.

Gods, everything had gone to hell. So, so quickly.

The last thing Sorscha, healer, lover and rebel spy, heard before the darkness enveloped her, embracing her as an old friend, was her name on the prince's lips, and rising above the chaos unfolding around them the king's laugh.

She had wanted to kill that man.

He had gotten there first.

DORIAN

Gone. She was gone. The thought played on repeat, a broken record in his broken mind.

Gone. Gone. Gone.

No. Dead. Sorscha was dead. Sorscha wasn't gone. Being gone meant that you could come back.

Sorscha could never come back.

It was that thought the ripped him to pieces, pieces that could be sewn together but would always be broken, missing, lost. And it was his father's fault. It was his father - no, not his father, not anymore - The king's fault that the girl he loved was dead.

Dorian screamed.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm back! Several months later! As you can see I have very bag time management. **

**Disclaimer, I don't own this, yada yada yada**

**Without further ado...**

MANON

The prince was handsome.

Well, not exactly the prince. The Valg's chosen vessel was handsome. But that doesn't mean that the Princeling wasn't... in there... somewhere.

'Hello, Princeling.'

It was the right thing to say. Some of the emptiness, the hollowed out nothing in the Prince's eyes flickered. Vanished, to be replaced with a sort of tired spark; tired, but true. He was fighting a loosing battle.

It was clear that he would go down swinging.

'Hello Witchling.'

Manon felt- well, she felt. And for the Blackbeak Heir, even that was something, directed at this... this prince.

This Valg.

This Prince.

This... boy.

DORIAN

I blink.

_I_ blink.

**Please please please review and tell me what you think of this writing style; I don't usually write like this so I wanna know what ya'll think :)**


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